D’s hands tighten on my hips, a groan rumbling through his chest. “Wren,” he breathes, my name a warning and a plea.
I widen my legs and welcome his hand as he slides up my thigh, teasing the sensitive crease where my thigh meets my hip. My breath hitches as his fingers travel higher, grazing the sensitive flesh of my inner thighs. With a groan, he slips his hand between my legs, cupping my soaked pussy and rubbing my clit with slow, deliberate strokes.
“Fuck, you’re drenched.”
I roll my hips, grinning wickedly. “You gonna do something about it, big guy?”
His eyes flash, dark with hunger. Challenge accepted.
He slips two fingers inside me, curling them just right. A moan escapes me before I can bite it back. D’s smirk is triumphant, the bastard.
Fine. Two can play that game.
I lean in, lips brushing his ear. “That all you got?”
Before he can respond, I latch onto his neck, sucking hard. Marking him. Mine.
D’s fingers falter for a second, a strangled groan tearing from his throat. Then he redoubles his efforts, thumb circling my clit with maddening precision.
This feels insanely good.
We’re locked in a battle now, each trying to make the other break first. His fingers work magic inside me, building a pressure that threatens to snap at any moment. But I refuse to give in, focusing instead on the patch of skin I’m determined to turn purple.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
My body’s betraying me, clenching around his fingers like it’s trying to pull him deeper. The wet sounds of his movements are obscene in the quiet kitchen. I bite down harder on his neck, desperate to muffle the moans threatening to escape.
No way am I letting this smug bastard win. No fucking way.
But goddamn, those fingers. Strong and relentless, working me so perfectly. He’s found a spot that makes my vision blur, and he’s exploiting it mercilessly.
My hips betray me, grinding down hard onto his hand. I’m close. So fucking close.
I release his skin with a wet pop, my willpower finally snapping. “Fuck!” I cry out, my body arching into his touch.
D lifts his head from my neck, and I catch a glimpse of his face. The bastard looks entirely too pleased with himself.
“That’s it,kotyonok,” he rumbles, his voice like gravel. “Let go. Let me hear you.”
Before I can tell him where to shove his smugness, a hissing sound cuts through the air. The soup in the pot is boiling over, threatening to douse the burner.
D releases me, turning quickly to switch off the stove. The sudden loss of contact leaves me trembling, teetering on the edge of release.
What the fuck!
Fuck. I’m so close, my body humming with need. I grip the edge of the counter as I try to steady myself. My breath comes in short, ragged gasps.
D turns back to me, his eyes dark and hungry. But instead of returning to finish what he started, he brings his fingers to his mouth. My eyes widen as he licks them clean, savoring my taste like it’s the best damn thing he’s ever had.
“Delicious,” he murmurs, and I swear my heart stops for a second.
Then, just like that, his expression shifts. The hunger is still there, simmering beneath the surface, but now he’s all business. As if we weren’t just about to fuck on his kitchen counter.
I watch, jaw clenched, as he casually grabs two bowls from a nearby cupboard. My gaze follows his every movement, tracing the lines of his back muscles, lingering on the purple mark I left on his neck. Proof that this wasn’t just some fever dream.
D ladles the soup into the bowls, the rich aroma filling the air. It should make my mouth water, but all I can think about is the throbbing between my legs.
He sets the bowls on the table, then pulls out a chair and sits down. His eyes meet mine, one eyebrow arching in challenge.
